


The Stars are old, that stood for me

by middlemarch



Series: Season 3 That Never Was, Middlemarch Edition [3]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Angst, Civil War, Drama, F/M, Gen, Gift Giving, Nurses & Nursing, Romance, Season 3 that never was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: A glimpse of episode 3, Season 3 that never was...





	The Stars are old, that stood for me

“Did you really save a man’s life with only your bare hands, Nurse Hastings? In a snowstorm?” Louisa exclaimed. 

Anne would have been annoyed by the interruptions during a complicated dressing change on Private Moffat, but the questions were asked in a tone of sincere admiration and Louisa was handing her roll after roll of bandages in quite the perfect rhythm, so that Anne not only did not lose her place but found she was proceeding more easily than usual. It had taken Emma Green a good month to become such an adept assistant while Louisa had been at Mansion House a mere fortnight. Anne could not say how well Mary Phinney would have performed the task; she had avoided working with the other woman when she was the Head Nurse and since her return as Mrs. Dr. Foster, she had not undertaken any real nursing, her marriage and her slow convalescence both conspiring to keep her from any attempt to usurp Anne’s rightful position. Anne twisted and tucked a bit of bandage, unable to help smiling at the neatness before she answered.

“And that’s a dressing that would do Miss Nightingale herself proud! A lovely bit of handwork, that,” she said, gesturing to the even folds, snuggly wrapped. Louisa murmured an agreement and Anne went on. 

“Yes, I was the savior of that fine soldier, a Derbyshire lad as I recall. The surgeons had given up on him, not taking the time as I did to do a thorough assessment. I’d hardly anything at hand, used my own petticoat for the tourniquet, though it was the best I’d brought. Tatted lace, it had, all round the edge, quality,” Anne said, remembering the ferocious sound the cloth had made as she’d torn it frantically, how much softer the boy’s breathing had been than the stubborn linen and the wind howling at the snow like a mortal enemy. It was nearly Christmas in Virginia and there had been nary a flake, only a dreary rain and a sullen, chill fog that could never remind her of the Crimea. 

“A sacrifice to be sure—but a worthy one,” Louisa said. 

There were moments when Anne startled at the other woman’s tone, wondering if there was something contradictory below it, but she decided she’d fallen out of practice of being praised, with only Byron’s loutishness and Jed Foster’s acerbic wit or overworked distraction for commentary. Mary was careful in expressing her approval, aware she might provoke Anne more than soothe her, though since her return, Anne found the former nurse far less troublesome and sometimes she even considered her an ally. Louisa Alcott was lately arrived but had been an incomparable asset, though she spent every spare moment scribbling on foolscap; Anne felt sure her remarks could only be adulatory.

“Certainly and it does you credit that you can so easily see it. Not all can, you know. A nurse’s lot, I suppose,” Anne sighed.

“A nurse’s? Or a woman’s?” Louisa said, more sharply than she’d spoken before. Anne looked at her face, plain but appealing for the acuity in her hooded, hazel eyes, the quirk of her lips when she was amused. There was a banked anger within that spirit that Anne recognized—recognized and respected.

“Undoubtedly a topic for conversation, but not now I think. For such as we, there is work to be done day and night, night and day,” Anne announced in a tone that carried across the ward, even to where Mary sat reading something to a man whose eyes were bandaged. 

“Of course, Nurse Hastings,” Louisa interrupted. Anne felt her own temper rise and then saw Mary getting to her feet clumsily, using the chair she had been sitting in to help her balance, then walking across the ward with the uneven gait that spoke of her lameness. No jewel or bonnet bought by her fond husband could disguise it and Anne had the most curious sensation of shame mixed with pleasure, heightened by Louisa’s assessing eyes upon her.

“Mrs. Foster! What are you doing?” Anne called, walking swiftly towards Mary, Louisa only a step or two behind.

“Private Brooke needed fresh water and another dose of laudanum. You were busy and I thought it would be no trouble, I could fetch what was needful,” Mary explained.

“You’re no longer the Head Nurse, Mrs. Foster. Nor any kind of nurse,” Anne said before she could stop herself. The blow landed though she wished it hadn’t; once, Mary would have given a little smile like a Sphinx when Anne attempted to castigate her but now, her face showed her grief at losing her vocation, even though to Anne’s mind, she’d gained the world twice over.

“I should say, your role here is not to attend to menial chores. You occupy a different, loftier sphere and I’m sure it’s a benefit to the morale of all the patients—and the staff, I might add, to have you looking after the hearts and spirits of us all. And I, for one, am glad to be spared reading and writing interminable letters home to Mother or Wife,” Anne remarked, watching the delicate color rise in Mary’s cheeks. Too pale still, too drawn—she might have a word with Foster about the improvement he might see with the addition of a milk-pudding daily. 

“Do you miss it very much, Mrs. Foster, being Head Nurse?” Louisa interjected. Anne could not help wonder at what Mary’s answer would be. Mary had been renowned for her honest directness, a virtue Anne had always found overvalued and perhaps over-stated in the Yankee widow, who had seemed no stranger to a convenient duplicity.

“I’m grateful to be able to help at Mansion House in whatever way I can,” Mary said simply, her expression opaque. And then she trembled and Anne reached out to steady her, before there was any chance of Mary falling, no chair or iron bedframe at the ready for her to rely upon. 

“Now, you must rest, I think, otherwise all my nursing will be wasted! You know I cannot abide waste, Mrs. Foster, not of any kind, not in peach tarts nor rolled bandages!” Anne said firmly.

“Your nursing?” Louisa asked.

“Nurse Hastings saved my life, when I had typhoid a few months ago. If it weren’t for her expertise, for her quick thinking and generosity, I should have died,” Mary said. Jed Foster must have spoken of her confession but Anne could see nothing in Mary’s eyes but a compassionate gratitude, a womanly understanding that did not judge.

“Oh, please tell me, Nurse Hastings—if you can spare a moment. Your endeavors are always so exhilaratingly heroic,” Louisa said.

“It was nothing,” Anne said with an unaccustomed circumspection. She remembered the hours she’d spent in Mary’s room, the flask of gin warm in her hand and Mary delirious, calling for her mother, her dead husband. Calling for Jed Foster and weeping with shame when she was aware of it. Mary singing to herself softly in German and thanking Anne in the same language _Danke, nette Dame_ when she’d wiped Mary’s face with a damp cloth or lifted a spoonful of medicine to her lips. 

“I fear I must correct you, Nurse Hastings. It was everything. My physician in Boston and Jed—Dr. Foster, both agreed that your nursing was critical to my survival. Your diligent attention and your keen observation—I could not meet a finer nurse than you, should I sit down to tea with Miss Nightingale herself and I’d tell that to anyone, including Miss Dix,” Mary replied. Anne found herself blushing as she hadn’t since she was a girl of twelve.

“I think perhaps I’ll look in on Captain Lawrence. We’ve been reading _Faust_ and I think you’re right, it would do me good to sit quietly for a while. I expect Private Brooke will do better with your nursing than mine in any case,” Mary added, walking slowly across the hall to the smaller ward. Lawrence had been silent for a month, his head injury resisting any of Byron or Foster’s interventions and Anne knew Mary had convinced her husband to let her try reading to the man as long as there was a comfortable armchair for her to sit in for the long hours. 

“I wouldn’t have thought _Faust_ would be the most consoling work,” Louisa said, following Anne to Brooke’s bedside.

“Mrs. Foster has a fondness for it. She was the Baroness von Olnhausen before her marriage, you know, and she’s fluent in German,” Anne replied.

“A Baroness? But she’s from Boston!”

“Manchester, actually, if I’m not mistaken. Her first husband was the Baron von Olnhausen, a man of science. When she first arrived, the surgeons expected the descent of a Valkyrie, but found--”

“A Boston blue-stocking! Or rather, a Manchester blue-stocking. Nurse Hastings, I cannot thank you enough for allowing me to come work here. I should never have imagined all the tales you have to tell, the varied people and situations, the pathos and the romance,” Louisa said, all the while re-arranging the bed-linens, her hands quick and careful of the patient they tended.

“Is that why you’ve come? Not to serve your Cause or save the Union, but to siphon off as many stories as you can for your own use?” Anne snapped.

“Please don’t mistake me, Nurse Hastings—I think nursing is the most honorable of vocations and I naturally feel called to care for my countrymen, if they won’t let us women onto the field of battle in any other way,” Louisa replied.

“You would fight?” Anne asked.

“I’d do any number of things if they’d let me! But this is its own kind of fight, isn’t it? Not the way the men fight, with their weapons, to the death, but a battle against Death itself?” Louisa said.

Anne thought of all the men, the boys she’d tried to save. The easy cases and the hard, the hopeless. The few that had defied hopelessness and woken when she’d been sure they wouldn’t, their bodies broken but some intangible spirit within them resolute and infinitely resilient. She thought of the man Mary tended, lost within himself and perhaps never to return, and Mary herself, whose suffering had seemed to refine something within her even as she lost her earlier grace.

“Yes, I think it is” Anne replied.

“Won’t you tell me more? You’ve travelled so widely, seen so much and I’ve had such a…cloistered existence in comparison,” Louisa said, almost wistful except for the hunger Anne could hear in within the words. She considered how often anyone was willing to listen to her and how often someone actually asked for her opinion.

“Shall I tell you then of the man I saved on my crossing to these benighted Colonies? They had the canvas ready for his shroud, you know and the ship’s doctor had given up. Or,” she said, warming to her topic, Louisa’s expression avid and no sick boy calling for help at this very moment, “There was a child they all swore would never walk again, a regular Tiny Tim, and with my expert help, he regained use of his legs, was able to hop and skip and jump like a beetle on a lit hob,” Anne expounded.

“Nan—Nurse Hastings, if I might beg a boon of you, the gift of a private interview,” Bryon interrupted, nodding at Louisa. He carried a large parcel beneath one arm and had removed his soiled surgical apron at least and unrolled his sleeves before approaching her. They had had a sort of détente over recent weeks; she had not forgiven him for his public scolding but he had not done it a second time and he’d been was passed for considerate, not hogging the blankets and not eating the last of the miraculous pie Miz Gibson had conjured on a near nightly basis. 

“Nurse Hastings, I should not take up any more of your time now. You’ve been so gracious, so generous,” Louisa said.

“Generous?” Byron repeated. Anne narrowed her eyes.

“You are an apt pupil of the nursing profession, Miss Alcott, no need to thank me. Why don’t you see to Baird and Hummel’s bedpans and then Sister Mary Theresa may use your help in the store room,” Anne said. “Dr. Hale, I can spare a few minutes, that’s all.”

“That is all I require,” Byron answered, guiding her towards the officers’ lounge. Mary Foster had taken a few hours and plenty of Dr. Foster’s coin to appoint the room more pleasantly; there were now some late-blooming chrysanthemums in a vase, some embroidered pillows and a sheaf of newer journals on the polished table, including _Godey’s_ and _Harper’s Bazaar_. Anne sniffed every time she saw the room but she did appreciate a plump pillow at the small of her back and finding out how scandalously the Parisians were trimming their decolletages this year. It was not a time of day they were likely to be disturbed and Anne braced herself for Byron’s clumsy attempt at a romantic assignation or some ill-conceived criticism. Probably Thompson—he hadn’t liked what she said about the incision but he’d agreed to take the boy back to the operating room.

“Well, what is it, Byron?” 

“Won’t you sit down, my dear?” he said, gesturing at the sofa. She’d been up since five; she acquiesced.

“I know how you hate a lengthy exposition, so I shan’t belabor this. I have a gift for you, for the holiday,” he said.

“It’s not Christmas for three days, Byron. Have you lost track of time so completely?”

“No, never fear, I know when St. Nicholas is due to arrive. I didn’t want to give this to you in company…and I didn’t think it was wise to wait any longer. Won’t you open it now?” Byron said.

Anne squinted at him, aware if did her no favors but unable to resist. There was a queer light in his eyes though he was clearly making an effort to remain placid in the face of her perusal. She turned to the package, neatly wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine. There was an envelope tucked with the string, travel-stained and she plucked it out and waved it at him.

“What’s this?” she asked, not examining the address or hand.

“Today’s post. I didn’t want to lose it and I thought to bring it along,” he said. “Please, won’t you see what’s inside the box?” he added eagerly. She didn’t answer except to start peeling apart the paper, revealing a large rectangular box. She lifted the lid and gasped.

“Foster’s not the only one who can treat his woman properly, confound him! Though his pockets may be deeper than mine,” Byron said proudly. Anne was still silent, regarding the elegant wool cloak in her lap. It was delicately embroidered in blue silk thread around the neck, the placket, leading to the hem, the lining made of rich indigo silk. It was quite the finest piece of clothing Anne could remember seeing and certainly the most expensive gift she’d ever been given.

“Byron! What is this?”

“You needed a new cloak, Nan. You’ve needed one for months,” he said.

“Well yes, but wherever did you get it?”

“I must admit, I had help from Nurse Mary, Mrs. Foster that is.”

“From Mary Foster? These are her cast-offs? Byron Frederick Boethius Hale, how could you think I’d accept that woman’s leavings?” Anne shouted, wanting to take the lovely mantle and shove it in the fire and watch it burn. 

“No, no, Nan! She only offered me assistance in finding an adequate seamstress. And I must admit, I did ask her where to get the best quality wool, how much yardage was necessary. She assisted me with the details and that was all,” Byron explained hurriedly.

“A seamstress? This expensive wool—it must have taken weeks to get this material, there’s nothing like it left in Alexandria,” Anne said.

“I ordered it in October. From Manchester, a mill Nurse Mary knew of. I had to pay extra for the seamstress to finish it by Christmas, all the detail in the finishing she claimed would take her another month, but to have it ready by Christmas, by Jove! that was worth it to me. To have it ready for you, my dear,” Byron said.

“You’ve planned this for months. This beautiful cloak—for me,” Anne said slowly.

“Yours is threadbare and you’ve had to go out more as the Head Nurse. You deserve the finest in everything, Nan. I know it isn’t what you wanted, not a ring,” he said, pausing. “I hope it’s good enough for the Head Nurse of Mansion House. I’m hoping to make arrangement suitable for Mrs. Hale but with the War, there’ve been delays…”

“It’s good enough,” Anne said, stroking the soft wool. 

She was bewildered, or nearly so; Byron, Byron Hale, had spent months planning the most thoughtful, most expensive gift she’d ever received, willing to expose his ignorance and pocketbook to Jed Foster through discussions with the man’s wife, whose discretion he naturally overestimated. He’d given it to her discreetly so that no one could comment on the personal nature of the present and what it implied. She’d given up on Byron and now she would have to wonder if she had been too precipitate, too impetuous in her decision. Byron had not proposed just now, not quite, but he’d said everything but. _Mrs. Hale_ , he’d said, looking at her with a sincere determination and an undeniable fondness she’s rarely been the object of.

“I won’t keep you any longer,” he said, coming over to drop a brief kiss near her temple. His whiskers tickled but his lips were soft.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“My pleasure, my darling,” he said, walking out of the room. She drew her hand down along the silken embroidery, catching the edge of the envelope in its folds. She opened the letter, pulled the letter forth and read:

> “Dear Miss Hastings,
> 
> I was pleased to receive your inquiry about a position at Hammond General Hospital and was impressed with your credentials. Certainly, a protégé of Miss Nightingale herself can only be a valued addition to our staff. You will perhaps respond to this missive and let me know how quickly you are prepared to assume the position of Head Nurse and if you require my assistance in notifying Miss Dix about your departure and nominating a new Head Nurse for Mansion House…”

She was beginning to get everything she’d ever wanted and she’d never been so dissatisfied and confused, not in all her born days.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't entirely abandoned this project, a Season 3 for Mercy Street, but it's on such a back burner I think it's in a kitchen across town. Here's the last bit I wrote, featuring Anne Hastings front and center.
> 
> Title, as usual, from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
